


The Tower

by butteredflame



Series: asoiaf drabbles [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Speculation, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 02:21:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11819202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butteredflame/pseuds/butteredflame
Summary: Jon and Dany have been together for a while. But something is testing their relationship. What happens when Jon learns about his lineage?Post-ADWD. Post-Season 7, Ep 5: Eastwatch. Spoilers. Speculation. Wild thangs.





	The Tower

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt for @galratool on Tumblr for @bombgirlpow's challenge, A Fortnight of Jonerys. Go over and read her drabbles and one-shots! I just loved this prompt so much I wanted to share something. 
> 
> The prompt: Jon finds out about his lineage. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

  

Winterfell was a wreck. There was barely any food left for the next moon’s turn, let alone the rest of Winter. Jon could do nothing, for he had been bed-ridden for a fortnight as his injuries healed: a deep laceration on the arm and a twisted ankle. In his haste to run away from the mountain of wights that had overwhelmed the raiding party Beyond the Wall, Jon had knocked into several large rocks below the snowbank and lodged his left foot so deep he likely would have left it behind.

Thankfully, that had been when Daenerys arrived on the back of _Drogon_. He could still recall the fierceness of the black dragon’s cry, and the heat of the plume of purple-orange fire he spat out. When two other winged shadows sailed above and joined in the fray, Jon felt relief so deep it was clearly misplaced in their hellish situation. The Hound came along, and while muttering curses to him under his breath, he helped Jon wrench his foot free—though of course, not without pain. But it was no matter to Jon or the rest of his party; _Viserion_ and _Rhaegal’s_ added fire gave the raiding party enough time to beat back the wights that had gained on them.

Everything was going well until Ser Berric fell.

Then, Thoros of _Myr_ fell.

Then, _Viserion_ fell.

It started with a sharp cry of pain that momentarily took everyone’s attention. The dragon was fighting off a group of wights that took flight with him, attempting to stab him between the scales. When they managed to drag him down close enough to the ground, a spear with a milky white blade Jon had only seen once sailed fast and lodged itself into his chest. The Whitewalker knew where he would fall to the ground, and was there to see him when he did.

Daenerys was still with _Drogon_ and _Rhaegal_ , attempting to burn hundreds of wights at a time and a Whitewalker or two. Feeling his duty to save her child, Jon cried to the others—those that were left—to gather and push forward to _Viserion_. But they were too late. Even from half a league away, when he opened his eyes, Jon could see clearly: they were bright blue, like stars.

Daenerys was sobbing, even when she landed _Drogon_ and commanded the men to climb on. Not all could fit, so the Hound, Ser Jorah and Gendry climbed onto _Rhaegal’s_ back, while Tormund stayed with him. Then Daenerys commanded them to fly. But even a league into the air, Jon could feel the Night’s King’s eyes trained on them. When he dared to look back only once, he regretted it. Even dead, _Viserion_ leaned into the cold touch of the Night’s King. Jon expected them to come after them—but he knew him well enough now. They stayed and watched the party fly further away, while the rattling bones of the dead grew fainter from below.

The memory still chilled him. But it was Daenerys’ sobs that haunted his sleep.

He had one hand wrapped around _Drogon’s_ spines, and the other wrapped tighter around Dany. Her sobs stopped at the New Gift. Three days later, her tears had dried.

Now a fortnight since returning to Winterfell, the castle might as well have been a graveyard. Even for all the fighting men, the Northern ladies and lords, and Daenerys’s small crew of Unsullied and Dothraki _bloodriders—_ and the natural hot springs that had heated the castle for thousands of years—Winterfell was chilled to the bone. Death and grief lurked around every corner. Even a roaring fire in the hearth couldn’t chase it away.

This was why Jon found it so foolish to have fought with Dany yet again.

 

\--

 

Though one wouldn’t know these days, morning had indeed come, and Jon woke alone. The fire had gone out hours ago, so the cold had reached far below his furs. It didn’t seem that Dany had returned at all after their fight last night; for her pillow was left unturned, her vials of oils untouched at the bedside table, and her trunk of clothing was still in the corner gathering snow and dust.

Jon sighed, then closed his eyes at the sight of the hot vapor rising into the air.

After a few minutes of shifting his limbs, he found he could stand the pain enough to climb out of bed. He felt better than he had yesterday, or the day before that, or that. So, he started a fire with the few logs they had left and sat before it for a while. His injuries felt all the better for it.

But he almost felt guilty for being in such a pleasant mood. After all, when did that ever happen? Most importantly, he couldn’t be so calm, knowing that Daenerys was off somewhere, still half-dead with grief.

“By the Gods,” he cursed, tossing in a final log. “What have I done?”

He had no more time to brood. A heavy knock sounded on the door, then it opened before he could even turn around. Arya rushed in with a bowl of brown stew and fried bread. Wordlessly she set it on the table near the east wall. He stared at her. She stared back.

“ _Eat,”_ she commanded.

With a shake of his head, he returned to the fire. “I shouldn’t be stuck here licking my wounds, Arya. I am King. I should be eating breakfast with my people in the great hall.”

“You look a right mess,” she teased, stepping closer. She picked at a limp bit of his hair then grimaced at the oil.  “Besides, everyone knows you were injured. You need to take time to heal.”

He would not have this conversation again. _Least of all with my little sister,_ he groused. “Thank you for the meal.”

“Jon…”

“What do you want me to say, Arya? I’m not staying in this bloody room one more day. Look!” It took a few moments and a grunt, but he pushed himself to his feet with great success and palmed his injured arm. “I can move about freely now. Don’t try to stop me.”

Arya didn’t laugh much these days. Her grey Stark eyes had gone hard with the world she’d seen and the things she’d done. Jon understood, which was why he cherished the moments he earned a smile from her. He smiled in turn, and she rolled her eyes.

“I couldn’t even try to stop you from doing what you want, Jon. Are you sure you’ll be well on your own today?”

“Aye,” he nodded. “Will that be all, my lady?”

“I’m not one to pinch but…” She took his flesh between two evil fingers and pinched hard. He tried not to yelp, but it was the injured arm. “I know you and Queen Daenerys fought again.”

“You don’t need to call her that,” he said, pushing her hand off. “At least between us all. She already told you.”

“Words are wind.” She glared at him fiercely. “Which is why you need to _fix_ it, whatever is you said. She lost her _dragon_. You’re at least as important as they are. She doesn’t want to lose you, and she almost _did_.”

Jon frowned. “Did you talk with her?”

“No.”

His frown turned skeptical. “Arya!”

But she was already nearing the door. “You don’t need me, that’s what you said, right? I’ll leave you, then, your grace!”

The great door closed behind her with an even greater _bang!_ Jon sighed, then shuffled over to the table and settled in to break his fast. It was nearly noon when he had finished. When he looked outside to check the severity of the storm, however, he shook his head to himself. 

 _It’s more of the same,_ he thought. _Snow._  

 

\--

 

It was the first time he’d entered the crypts since his return to Winterfell.

Jon had never had a good relationship with the crypts. As a child, each time he entered, he was frightened by the whispers of Kings of Winter, sneering at him to leave. For, he wasn’t wanted there. For, he didn’t belong there. He’d even been plagued with dreams that pulled him further into the darkness of the frozen crypts, no matter how much he insisted that it would never be his place.

But in recent moons he felt significantly more comfortable. There was something about being able to see his lord father’s stone statue, after all these years without the luxury or privilege, that made the crypts more welcoming. By his third visit, which this was, he’d even become agreeable to the chalky air.

 _After all,_ he thought as he entered slowly, _here I breathe in ten thousand years of history._

Halfway down, he stopped before Lord Eddard Stark’s statue. The visage wasn’t much in likeness, for the face was too small and the hair was too limp and short. Yet it looked like him enough to bring flashes of Jon’s youth to his mind…but always, at the end, the last words he ever told him.

Sighing deeply, Jon caught sight of Lyanna Stark to his lord father’s left. He frowned, but he didn’t know why, until he placed the sound of careful steps with the scent. _Mint._ Jon turned, catching him just before he entered the range of the nearest torch. _Lord Petyr Baelish._

The Lord Protector of the Vale and Winterfell’s resident snake in the grass bowed humbly to Jon. Jon didn’t even bother to palm Longclaw’s hilt. If there were any problems, he was sure his hands would suffice.

“Your grace, it is good to see you walking around again.” Littlefinger’s voice was hushed. The crypt seemed to have the same effect on all who entered. “You couldn’t have chosen a better time. The lords have begun to talk.”

“The lords always talk.”

_I’m not like to believe a word you say, in any case._

Lord Petyr bowed again. “I mean no offense, your grace.”

“What do you want?” he snapped. “It had better be good. Because the last time you and I talked, you were close to choking on your filthy words about my sister.”

Lord Petyr lowered his gaze, demure. But Jon knew he was watching him. “They were my words, but your hands.”

“I won’t play word games with you. What is it you want?”

“Only to converse with you.”

“Why here?”

“Well, your grace, I, like everyone else, haven’t seen you around the castle since your raiding party returned. When I saw you leave the Great Keep this morning, I sought to follow you so we may speak.”

“This is informal, even for you,” Jon frowned. “State your business, my lord. My patience grows thin.”

“Of course. You are here to mourn.” He paused, as if it hadn’t been intentional. “Queen Daenerys mourns as well. I would ask her myself, but she is intimidating, even for my sensibilities…and she is…not well.”

“Who are you to say she isn’t—”

“I am only asking…if there is anything I could do to help? The Lords of the Vale are at her grace’s service.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Lord Petyr casted a pitying glance. His eyes said, _You poor fool._ To which Jon said, _I may be a fool, but you’ll soon be dead._ “I protect the Vale,” he drawled. “Her grace protects us all.”

“Not as of yet,” Jon countered, taking small steps to him. “Not unless you bend the knee.”

“But you haven’t.” Jon narrowed his eyes, and Littlefinger paused again. “The realm is in a free fall. We are running low on grain, shelter and weapons. And from what your raiding party has told us, the army of the dead marches ever closer to kill us all and pull the world into darkness. Even so, politics remain the same. How long can her grace, or even you, hope to keep the careful peace we hold in Winterfell, while your inferior lords are not clear about their arrangements?”

Jon frowned. Something about his words rang true. “And you say all the lords talk?”

“They grow restless by the hour.”

“Have you brought this to Lady Sansa?”

“She told me to speak with you.”

 _Of course, she did,_ he thought wearily _. I am the King._

“And what if I told you to speak with our Queen?”

He asked, if only to know what Littlefinger would say to the taunt.

“Well,” he chuckled, but his eyes were dark. “I would not be so inclined but if I must, I would ask for the arrangements that you have with her.”

 _I found you,_ thought Jon, as he grabbed the smaller man by the neck once again. This time he almost relished in the squirms and grunts Littlefinger gave as he choked on his words. Jon gave him some of his own.

“You owned a brothel in King’s Landing, yes?” He slammed him against the wall. “You don’t care about women, do you? No matter the woman or her status, they’re all the same.”

When Jon squeezed tighter, Littlefinger tried in vain to pull his fingers loose.

“Your vassal lords aren’t fond of you, but they are the most loyal men in the realm. So, I can’t kill you.” His eyes were bulging, trained right on Jon. “You are filth.”

He let go. The man’s ringed hands went to his throat, clutching for air as he dragged a ragged, pained breath into his lungs. He was unsteady on his feet, but Jon saw no reason to help him.

“If you’re gone when Winter passes,” said Jon, watching him stumble, “the realm would be the better for it, thrice! Do you hear me, Lord Petyr? It is the Night’s King. His dead army. And you.”

But the lord still couldn’t get his bearings. Though Jon didn’t wish to touch him again, he reached out. But his grasp slipped, then Lord Petyr fell so heavily against a nearby statue that it tilted over. The stone was fairly heavy so Jon didn’t expect it to break at all. But it did.

For a moment, all was silent in the crypts of Winterfell once more.

Jon looked to his lord father. Then the empty space to the left. _Oh no._ It was Lyanna. _We have no masons! We don’t even have food! And no one is alive who knew what she looked like!_

Jon scrambled to the floor and picked up the pieces of the statue’s shattered crown, vainly attempting to save what was lost. But on closer inspection, he realized the smooth opposite ends of the pieces. It was if the statue had been hollow on the inside.

Noticing that Littlefinger was still quiet, he glanced over. He was breathing calmly now, wide eyes on the stones in Jon’s palms. Jon had nothing to say to him, so he shook his head and continued the inspection. The damage wasn’t so severe. It was only the crown, the center of the back of the head. _It can be repaired_ , he told himself. _Yet, this… This is why I don’t belong here._

“It’s alright. What is broken can be mended.”

“Don’t talk to me of mending the broken. _Leave._ ”

“Your grace.”

He was going to say, _Now_ , but something had taken his eye. It was a shine, buried below the rubble. When Jon sifted the stones, growing increasingly discomforted, he suddenly discovered a fine piece of jewelry. A yard away, Lyanna’s statue lay face-up, and the open crown exposed the inside to him, dark as a mother’s womb. 

“Your grace.”

Littlefinger’s voice was fading, undermined by the resplendence of the necklace. It was a line of seven square cut sapphires set into a think silver chain, from which several lines of diamonds dangled. Even though it spent nearly three decades collecting stone dust inside the statue, the gems had retained their shine. _This needs only a polish and it will be as if it had never been…hidden._

He met the lord’s eyes. Then he closed his palm around the necklace, got to his feet, and moved as quickly as he could—out of the crypts and into the storm. Besides, he’d just found a necklace in a dead Stark’s statue. Littlefinger didn’t need such information.

But Jon knew who had the information. _I must find Bran._ It was all he thought as he picked his way through thick snows from the crypts to the Great Keep. Then he rounded a corner into the courtyard, where he would find the large metal gate to the godswood. Before he’d even made it halfway there, however, a figure appeared from the snow like a mirage. He wouldn’t have known it was her, for her silver-gold hair blended in the falling snow. But her smoky gown stood out, so Jon watched her measured trek on the bridge above that connected the Great Keep to the armory.

Just as he saw her, she caught sight of him. The courtyard was nearly lifeless, but for a strangling stableman and two guards heading to the east gate to relieve the ones currently on duty. He was safe to call to her, but his lips wouldn’t move.

He held her gaze; silently, he told her to wait for him. Then he ran as fast he could into the Great Keep and up the winding steps that led him to the bridge. With heavy footsteps that echoed on the old wood, he burst into the snow, then stopped just before her halfway down the bridge. He had placed the necklace in a pocket in his cloak, so his hands were free to take hers. Fueled by the regret that had stirred in his chest since _Viserion_ fell and the moment Daenerys started demanding more from him—for his safety, for his health, for his life—he pressed his lips to her hands. Even below the _whoosh_ of snow swirling about their heads, he heard her breath catch. He closed his eyes reverently.

“Jon…”

He opened his eyes and found hers, coal black on violet. She removed a hand from his grasp and cupped his face gently. Her eyes peered at him, still wounded with a mother’s grief, but clearer than they’d even been last night. _Fire_ took him, and it was as if they were in the cave of the Children of the Forest once again. 

“What is wrong?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, Dany.”

She quirked a brow. “What for?”

“For all of it,” he said, shaking his head. Her thumb stroked his jaw, softening the tightness in his chest. “You were right to be worried, to demand me to be better.”

“Yes, I was. We’ve only just found each other.” Unshed tears came to her eyes again. His throat tightened. “I _won’t_ lose you.”

“You may.” 

“No. You have to take better care of yourself, Jon. For me. For your brother and sisters. No more _martyring_ yourself. You can take on a hundred wights and slay a Whitewalker. But if you are hurt, you must stay still to let yourself heal.” She paused, and the tears fell, but she pushed on. “I need you to come back to me. Do you hear me?”

He nodded dumbly, and she took his face in her hands and peppered kisses from his cheek to his lips. He kissed her fiercely, whispering apologies between breaths, and gathered her in his arms. She had been surprisingly warm in the cave, and as passionate as she was now. She wrapped her arms about his shoulders, and he held her tight, breathing in the oils she used in her hair. When a gush of wind hit the bridge, he set her down and wiped the tears from her cheeks. 

“My child is dead.” Her voice had gone quiet again. “Nothing will ever change that. I wish you had gotten know him better.” 

“I do as well. I am so sorry, Dany.”

But it was as if she hadn’t heard him, but for an abortive squeeze of his arm. He peered at her, frowning, because she was frowning at him.

“What is wrong?” she asked again.

“What do you mean?”

“Something other than grief is pulling on your face.” He felt himself blushing under her heated gaze. “My handsome king…” She mused. “What troubles you?”

 _Oh,_ he thought. _The necklace._

“Come with me to the godswood.” 

“What for?” she asked dubiously, though she let him pull her down the length of the bridge. “To pray? You know I have no gods.”

“I think the Old Gods would be kind to you, Daenerys.” Only when they were descending the steps, he realized he was smiling. “But we are not praying. I must hurry to meet Bran.”

They were out in the courtyard again, nearing the gate to the godswood. 

“And why must I come with you?” 

Jon paused, noticing the glowing feeling in his chest. He turned to her. “Because I love you. And this is important.”

She was not a woman to be pulled along for long, so he let go of her hand and gestured for her to lead. After a beat, she nodded then pushed past the gate and entered the godswood. He heard her breath catch again as she took in the sights. The multitude of trees created a dense canopy that made the godswood feel cocooned and safe. Packed earth, hummus and moss moistened the air, and cushioned their steps as they moved further inward. On the opposite end of the black pool, unfrozen even in Winter, Bran sat in his wheeled chair below the heart tree. His eyes had gone from white to brown the moment Jon spotted him. But Jon knew the greenseer had seen him all the same.

Daenerys was silent for the small trek to Bran, eyes observing even the smallest details. It wasn’t the first time she’d been here, but once again, he noticed her attention most taken by the bloodied tears that dripped from the eyes of the face carved into the heart tree.

 _The Old Gods watch us,_ thought Jon. _May they answer our prayers._

They stopped before Bran, who was surprisingly smiling. He said nothing, however. He only held his gloved palm out to Jon. Frowning, Jon retrieved the necklace from the pocket in his cloak and transferred it to Bran’s palm.

“I was in the crypts visiting my father,” he explained to Dany, “when Lord Baelish arrived. He said many unsavory things, so I nearly killed him.”

“He is the Lord Protector of the Vale,” she snapped. “You cannot kill him.”

“I know,” he stressed. “Which was why I _nearly_ did.” Remembering his rage, he shook his head. “In his struggles to catch his breath, he bumped into Lyanna Stark’s statue. It fell and shattered a bit at the crown. Underneath the remains, I found that necklace.”

Daenerys turned to him, aghast. “That necklace was in the statue?”

“Aye,” he nodded. “It’s been left untouched for decades. Do you know what this is about, Bran?”

Jon was aware that, even for all she had done and seen, Daenerys still struggled with Bran’s _warging_ abilities—and of course, his title and _greensight_ as the Three-Eyed Raven. _He knows all that has happened and everything that is happening._ It was likely because she couldn’t understand his kind of magic, for the kind she’d known functioned fairly differently. However, Bran had revealed enough information over the moons, some known and others secret, that she believed him as much as anyone else. Jon knew he could trust her.

But he did not expect Bran’s almost affectionate expression. Eyeing the necklace, he took a breath, then met Jon’s gaze. 

“I suppose it’s time to tell you,” he started. “Please take a seat, Jon. You as well, your grace.” 

The request was unexpected but not odd, so after sharing a glance, Jon and Dany cleared snow from a nearby stone and seated themselves. Jon’s furs made him quite large, so they chuckled under their breaths as they maneuvered for more room.

“Shall I take you on my lap, my queen?” Jon whispered in her ear.

“If your injuries would allow it,” she returned, laughing. “But don’t you dare. We can arrange that for later, my love. Now move just a bit more… Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

He lost himself in her eyes again, heart pounding below layers of fur. It had terrified him at first, but when they’d entered the cave in Dragonstone alone, he’d let himself be pulled into her tide. Her love was in her eyes and the curl of her lips; leaving trails of sparks where her fingertips brushed the back of his hand. He smiled at her, and she smiled back. They nodded to each other then turned their attention to Bran…who was still smiling.

“Jon.” Bran took a deep breath. “This necklace is made of silver, sapphire and diamonds. The gems are Southron, as well as the style. It was gifted to Aunt Lyanna from a Southron suitor, which she kept with her throughout the War of Usurper—”

His eyes went to Dany, then back to Jon.

“And when Father finally reached her at the Tower of Joy, she pleaded with him to hide it within her hollowed statue.”

Jon frowned. “She knew she would die? How could she have been so sure?”

“She was giving birth and she knew she wouldn’t survive.”

“Father never told us…”

“Father lied about a lot of things. He kept even more secrets. But he had to, for the choices he had made.”

Jon greatly disliked where this was heading. Sensing his retreat, Bran held the necklace to him. Jon took it skeptically and curled his palm around it. Daenerys was watching him, frowning with concern. He couldn’t meet her gaze just yet.

“Aunt Lyanna had a child,” he said, testing out the words. “Did it survive?” 

“Yes.”

A spike of rage engulfed his chest so quickly he took a deep breath to stamp it out. He shifted uneasily on the rock, growing restless 

“Was the necklace even a gift from Robert Baratheon?”  

Bran’s eyes flitted to Dany again. “No.”

He scoffed. “So, everything is a lie.”

“Yes,” said Bran bluntly. “Her suitor was what we call her capturer. And her child lives.”

“Rhaegar?”

Dany’s voice was high and pointed, as if she was speaking to her dead brother, right there. _Did you do this?_ Her eyes said. _Did you really do this?_

“Yes,” Bran answered. “Rhaegar and Lyanna _did_ run away together. He _did_ annul is marriage to Ellia Martell. And they _did_ perform a wedding ceremony before the Old Gods.”

“ _No_ ,” he said.

“They had you, Jon.”

“ _No_." 

“They _chose_ to have you.”

“You’re lying!”

“Father lied!” Bran snapped. “He lied because they would have killed you, had they known you were the last living son of the crown prince. All of the Targaryens were dead or gone.” His eyes were sad as they took Daenerys in. She was still as a statue, though her breaths were strong, almost forced. “Daenerys and Viserys had already sailed for _Pentos_. It was you, and you alone. They would have killed you.”

 _No…_ Jon couldn’t understand what he was hearing. _Father lied._

“If they had,” said Bran, “Lyanna’s sacrifice would have been for nothing." 

“Jon, listen to him…”

Daenerys called to him, but he couldn’t hear her. He pushed himself to his feet with the need to move. He had to make sense of this, to calm the pain rising in his chest. He worked his jaw. He clenched his fists. His hand even found Longclaw’s hilt—then when he realized what he was doing, he removed and closed his eyes. The world was turning silent, as angry, confused tears sprung to his eyes.

Memories flashed behind his eyes. _Summer snows filtering into Winterfell’s halls. The joy of sparring with Robb in the courtyard and sometimes besting him. Lady Catelyn’s sour eyes, wishing I’d never taken a breath. Arya’s hugs and laughter. Sansa’s coldness. Rickon and Bran, yet untouched by their lady mother’s contempt for me, but growing stronger each day._ Jon cried. _Father had always refused to tell me of my mother._ He still carried the pain of his unaware youth, nights spent dreaming up a beautiful, highborn, and kind woman. _Father was protective of me, and I was grateful, if not awed…_ But the moments he refused to speak of his mother were the moments he failed, for they made Jon feel isolated and confused, like some boorish thing kept around for reasons unknown to him.

 _Could it have been love?_ He’d always wondered. Now he knew.

But Bran could sense him. He raised his voice, trying to reach him. “Remember that I can _see_ , Jon. When Father laid his eyes on you, he loved you. When Aunt Lyanna asked him to keep you safe and made him swear it, he said yes. The secret never stopped haunting him but he never stopped loving you.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he snapped, now pacing. “Would he really have told me, if he had lived?”

Bran had not been there for their last conversation just beyond the Wolfswood, but Jon didn’t need to provide details 

“It would have been dangerous, but you were old enough to keep your own secrets. If his life had been spared and he took the black, he might have told you.” He shook his head. “But it is too late for that, now.”

Jon could say nothing. The ground was getting further away from him. He felt light. Suddenly Daenerys was standing next to him, gently taking one of his hands and uncurling the fist. He gazed at her, bewildered and bemused. But he knew what he was doing when he pressed the necklace into her palm. He was gratified when she took it. This small pillar of womanhood and _fire_ —she took it. The words he needed didn’t come to him, yet she knew all the same.

When he returned his attention to the heart tree, Bran had already started rounding the black pool.

“Where are you going?” he called.

“Somewhere. Maybe nowhere. In any case, you two need to be alone.” He stopped rolling and turned back only once. “I’m the Three-Eyed Raven, Jon. With having seen all that has happened and all that is happening now, I don’t feel much anymore. But you are my blood, so I feel I must say this. Your mother’s love gave you life, even as it took hers. She will be with you, always.”

He rolled a few yards more, then Jon called to him again.

“And my father?”

Daenerys took a deep breath. _I’m sorry,_ Jon thought. But he had to know.

Bran smiled. “He knew you would be great.”

The wind picked up, throwing thick bits of snow into his ears. Above, the leaves of the heart tree filtered pale red light into the moist space of the ancient godswood. Jon’s lungs were thick with it; his fingers numb with it. Yet it rode on the air when he exhaled, and set his heart aflame when Daenerys pressed her lips to his shoulder.

_Could it have been love?_

When he finally found his voice again, Bran had already exited through the gate.

 

\--

 

They were seated on the rock again, so Jon had little room to turn to her. He did, all the same, and embraced her shell-shocked silence. He understood, for, of course, he felt the same.

“I never knew a mother’s love,” she started, sighing. “My mother died giving birth to me, as well.”

“Rhaella Targaryen died giving birth to you? I didn’t know that.”

Daenerys was surprised. “You knew her name?”

“Of course,” he said, inclining his head to her. “It was all a tragedy…but they said it was necessary…to free the realm from your father’s tyranny.”

She was silent for a long moment. Then with a roll of her eyes, she turned to the black pool. Jon shifted with her. Although the curl of her lips was small, her eyes were grateful. _What else would I do,_ he thought, for he knew what this feeling was. 

Long moments passed as they sat before the pool, pondering their grim expressions and the tasks that still lay ahead in their respective responsibilities. Jon had to return to his duties as King in the North, which included one-on-one conversations with his vassal lords. Daenerys had two small council meetings scheduled later that day. And just before dinner, they were to begin discussion of the arrangements Lord Petyr had so graciously hinted to Jon. Two Houses. One castle. It was madness… _But then again,_ he thought, watching a red leaf fall to the pool’s surface, _everything is utter madness, and likely has always been._ If he ever wanted to know for certain, he could always check in with Bran.

He chuckled to himself and shook his head.

Daenerys turned to him, skeptical yet scandalized. “What are you laughing at?”

His eyes trailed the plains of her face. They had once been unknown to him, but each day her features grew familiar, still. By the logic of this madness, he was gazing at his aunt. She was gazing at her nephew. And yet…

_It is love._

“You know what this means, Daenerys. You and I…share blood.” He grimaced. Then he said it again. “We share blood.”

She paused, then quirked a brow with growing humor. “I was the last of my name for years.” She released a hot breath. Jon yearned to touch her. “I certainly never thought I would be a Targaryen to couple with another.”

“I…can’t even say the words, myself, yet.” He huffed. “That I am…”

“It’s alright.” She hesitated to take his hand. He did it for her, lacing her fingers with his, and she swallowed thickly. “We must all take the time we need to adjust to the world…as it was and as it is.”

The air grew tight and quiet as Jon’s gaze turned heavy. His heart was high and open, while his gut filled butterflies; he trembled with the tenderness she inspired. He kissed her softly, gently, until the heat and wet of her was too tempting in the cold. He kissed her until he wanted to sit her on his lap and sing her praises. He yearned to be closer. He likely always would.

Pulling away, he asked, “Will you take the necklace?”

Dany cupped his face, thumb stroking his lower lip. “Yes.”

“Good,” he smiled, and pulled her into a hug. “It’s yours.”

She laughed into his chest, and Jon tightened his hold on her. He knew that no matter what else occurred that day, he would know what he was fighting so hard for.

The glowing feeling in his chest agreed.

_It is love._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So I have two other stories I'm working on, but I've been having trouble because the show is airing and there are so many feelings and happenings, oh my... So I put this together after watching Eastwatch. Hoping it's more speculative than spoiler-y because I certainly have no idea what's going to happen next! 
> 
> I cannot wait to see more of what @bombgirl will write for our babes in her series, A Fortnight of Jonerys. I'm proud to throw my hat in. Will probably fill another prompt, just for kicks, because the prompts are so good...!
> 
> Thanks for reading.


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